


Belonging

by spookyknight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adventure, Aliens, Angst, Blood, Bonding, Domestic Fluff, Drinking Games, I See Your Get-Along Shirt and Raise You A Get-Along Planet, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Season/Series 03, Rating May Change, Slightly more than canon-typical violence, Slow Burn, Swearing, Trauma, Warnings May Change, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-22 12:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyknight/pseuds/spookyknight
Summary: Lance remembers standing on Olkarion with a complete team, the night before they were going to save the universe. It was foolish to think it’d be that easy. But that’s how the fairy tale goes: the hero defeats the great evil and earns the ultimate boon.Maybe this is his boon.Stranded on a planet at the edge of the universe—off the Altean map and outside the Galra Empire—Keith and Lance contemplate a future without Voltron.





	1. Impact

**Author's Note:**

> many many thanks to my wonderful beta(s) for putting up with me and polishing my wayward words ♥

Galra bleed purple. Not the violet or mauve of their exterior. Galra blood is dark, rich eggplant. Blackberry jam.

Lance learns this in the dark corridor of a prison ship. Their search is taking too long. Bad intel again. Shiro isn’t onboard this ship either. The Castle is taking heavy fire. Everyone is split up and the comms are spotty.

The paladins scramble back to their point of entry, where the Green Lion awaits them. Things slip in a rush. Mistakes happen. Lance rounds a sharp corner and is met with three Galra sentry bots.

It shouldn’t be hard, just three sentries. But the midst of battle is a clusterfuck. Three sentries can mess you up just as soon as a battalion. Like those braggarts who tell tales of fighting off thirty guards single-handed while their comrades chuckle and shake their heads, holding up four fingers. In that moment, it feels like more.

Everything happens so fast.

Lance’s bayard is armed. He fires four shots in rapid succession—two bots go down. It’s an instinctive choice: take out the closest threat. But the third wave is on him too quickly.

The sentry rushes forward inside his immediate radius of action. His next shot goes too high, over the bot’s shoulder. The blue paladin isn’t primed for melee combat. He catches the sharp edge of the sentry’s blade under the barrel of his gun. Pushes back, trying to get some distance.

But he’s too close. He’s too close.

Lance activates his shield in time to block the sentry’s next blow. He pushes, the sentry attacks, hammering blow after blow to the shield and driving Lance backward. Lance is on the defensive and losing. The sentry lifts its blade high, making to strike from above. Lance prepares to dodge, but—

It’s struck from behind.

The bot staggers forward. It turns and Lance too seeks out the source of the hit. It’s Keith—impossibly—aiming a gun-shaped form of his bayard. The red paladin looks astonished at his weapon’s transformation.

Lance’s gaze flits back to the sentry’s blade, now lowered in its distraction. His memory flickers. The bug monster on Krell. He powers down his bayard to its inactive state. Catches the enemy’s blade with it, steering the gut hook toward the gap in the sentry’s armor.

The hook sinks in. Lance shoves. _Hard_. Jerks the blade to the right. The sentry roars and Lance drives the blade deeper and hears the roar tapers off into an obscene gurgle.

 

Shit.

 

It’s not a bot. It’s Galra.

 

_Shit._

 

The sentry falls forward. Lance scrambles backward but it’s too late. The body knocks him to the ground. Lance kicks and squirms out from underneath the corpse.

Lance’s own gasping breaths are loud to his ears. There’s tacky purple staining his legs. It’s pooling beneath the body, slow like syrup. Galra blood.

Footsteps clatter down the hall. Lance’s eyes stare unfocused at the mess he’s made. Someone’s calling his name. It feels distant. His ears are ringing.

Fingers grip his shoulder. His gaze follows the angle of the limb up to find Keith’s face. There’s a weeping scratch on his cheek. Lance reaches up, absently, to touch the red trickling down the other paladin’s jaw.

Keith bleeds red. Keith is Galra, but he bleeds red. Red like the color of his lion. Red like human blood. Lance’s blood.

Keith grabs his hand, starts pulling him up. “No time. We gotta go.”

The red paladin drags him bodily down the corridor. His arm is slung over Keith’s shoulder. His feet march forward mechanically. There’s chatter over the comms. It’s hard to follow.

“Got...prisoners,” Hunk says. “Where’s—”

“Lance? Keith?” Allura’s voice.

Keith responds. “I got Lance.”

“Hurry,” Pidge chirps.

“Not gonna make it,” Keith is saying. “We’re headed for an escape pod.”

Allura’s reply is choppy. “Stay together...don’t engage...get out.”

Keith nods. “Copy that.”

Allura must be worried they’ll separate. That they’ll repeat the past mistakes. Lately it does feel like they’re going in circles. The same problems crop up over and again.

Lance’s vision stops swimming and his surroundings come back into focus. The corridor opens up ahead. Almost there. In a few dobashes they’ll be back on the Castle. They’ll be safe. He can do this.

There’s a squad of sentry bots guarding the escape pod bay.

“Lance.”

Keith’s voice is tight; a plea and a warning. _Get your shit together_. Lance untangles himself, standing on his own. He activates his bayard. Gets off a few shots before the bots notice them. Two sentries go down.

The red paladin rushes the survivors, bayard cleaving limbs asunder. Lance opens up cover fire. One sentry down by blue, two by red. Behind Keith, a sentry aims. Lance gets that one and his pal too. Red carves up another and blue blasts the rest. The hall is clear.

“Come on,” Keith shouts, gesturing to the nearest escape pod.

Alarms blare. The bay lighting blinks in angry magenta. Keith slams his hand on a touch-screen and the bay door opens. They rush for the pod, its hatch already closing.

When they barrel inside, Keith goes right to the controls and Lance makes the mistake of looking back. They’ve got company. One of Haggar’s scary Galra sorcerers, a Druid, with a bone-white mask and flowing robes.

“Uh, Keith…”

“Hang on. We’re taking off.”

“But there’s—”

The pod’s boosters kick in, launching them out of the bay. The Druid advances, striding toward the edge of the hangar. It lifts a hand, crackling black lightning bursting forth and hitting the escape pod. The craft jolts with a clang, followed by an alarming sizzle.

A swirling gate manifests in the space ahead of them. It looks like a wormhole, but more chaotic and unstable. The pod rumbles and shakes.

Lance dashes to the front. “Keith. We don’t wanna wormhole. Make it stop!”

“I’m not doing this.”

“Well fix it!"

“How?”

“I don’t know.” Lance gestures vaguely. “Like you fixed the hangar door on the Balmera. Use your hand or whatever.”

“It’s not responding!” The red paladin’s voice goes shrill. “There’s no handprint!”

The not-wormhole sucks them in. The spacecraft quakes around them. Alerts beep and trumpet. Outside, the chaos seems hell-bent on ripping them apart. A clamor of rasping, scratching, and shrill cries thunder over the percussive clatter within. It’s too loud to think.

 

_Whump._

 

The atmosphere shifts. Gone is the exterior cacophony. The racket inside suddenly seems louder, rising up to swallow the silence.

“Are we through?” Lance asks.

“Uh…”

Keith’s fingers dance over the control panel. Galran letters flash past. He growls and activates the datastream on his visor instead. Keith scrolls through stats, too fast and backward for Lance to follow. The pod is moving. They’ve been thrust out of the howling chaos and into an unknown quiet. Red lights flicker all around. A trilling alarm demands attention.

“We’re gonna crash,” Keith says.

“What—”

The pod lurches violently, sending both paladins flying. Lance registers his impact with the wall just before things go—

 

Black.

 

Someone says his name and shakes him by the shoulders. Lance is not happy. He’s exhausted and dizzy and just wants the blessed relief of sleep.

“Wake up,” Keith orders. “You probably have a concussion.”

Lance groans. He tries to bat the red paladin’s hands away. It’s fruitless, he’s already coming to. The pod’s cabin is dark. Only the dim glow of their armor to see by. There’s a percussive _rat-a-tat_ tapping coming from outside. Sounds like a hailstorm.

Keith tugs off Lance’s helmet and then goes for his armor plates. Lance lets him. He’s too weary to put up a fight. The red paladin slides a hand under his neck, lifting his head.

Keith’s fingers press on his scalp. “Look at me.”

Lance blinks his eyes open. Keith is shining a bright light right at his face.

Rude.

“Your pupils are responsive. They’re not overly dilated.”

“Mmmph,” Lance mumbles. “Lemme sleep.”

The hand on his neck retreats and Lance winces as his head lands back on the metal floor. There’s a clicking sound of doors opening. He wishes Keith would stop making noise. As if responding to his silent plea, the room goes quiet. Then there’s rustling and something thin and crinkly is draped over his body.

Keith climbs under the cover next to him. Lance grunts as he turns on his side. He pulls at the red paladin’s arms, trying to situate them so they both have something pillowing their heads. Keith resists at first but then gets with the program and tries to be helpful.

Lance twines his arm under his companion’s neck but it's uncomfortable. He doesn't bend that way.

Keith sighs, flops on his back, and moves Lance’s head so it’s resting on his shoulder. The blue paladin gives an appreciative hum before letting sleep take him.

 

 

Lance startles awake. As he rouses, the ache sets in. His head is pounding. Beneath him, the metal floor is solid and cold. The warmth of his companion is gone. The plasticy material of the emergency blanket crinkles, the sound amplified in the cavernous space.

The pod is dark but there’s ambient light seeping in through the window. Wherever they are, it’s daytime.

There are cabinet doors popped open all around. Keith is missing but he’s apparently up and about. Lance is grateful to find that one of the open panels reveals a waste receptacle—smaller than an airplane bathroom, more like a space chamber pot. That seems to be the extent of creature comforts the Galra escape pod affords.

Lance stretches sore muscles, enjoying a moment of quiet before armoring up to face their plight. Through the window is a familiar-looking sky. Pale blue peeks out between a multitude of fluffy clouds. He activates the display on his visor and squashes the absurd, impossible hope stirring in his chest that they could somehow be home.

The readout provides atmospheric data—confirming breathable air—but provides no insight as to the planet’s spacial location. He tries to determine relative distance from their last known location. The display returns the Altean equivalent of a 404 Error.

No cosmic coordinates.  They’ve definitely landed on a planet, however, it’s not Earth and it’s far away from anywhere they’ve ever been. This place is completely off the Altean universal map.

_Great_.

The pod’s controls are down but Lance finds a hatch ajar in the rear of the craft. With a hard shove the door opens and he spills out, splashing in an inch of standing water.

It’s warmer outside. As far as he can see, the flat ground below mirrors a cloudy sky. The white, grainy texture beneath the shallow water crunches underfoot. Looks like they’ve landed on a salt flat. He looks down and reflection looks up at him, eggplant-colored bloodstains still smeared over his shins.

He’s startled by a curse followed by a metallic clank. He rounds the pod to find Keith kneeling beside the craft. The red paladin has torn off an outer panel to expose the wiring underneath. Whatever he’s attempting, it doesn’t seem successful.

Keith’s cut looks better; just a thin red line across his cheek. Lance sighs, relieved to see his fellow paladin in one piece. At least they’re not alone. His mind flickers to Shiro and he shivers, a chill running through him.

Lance approaches cautiously. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Keith swipes the damp fringe from his forehead. “Maybe Hunk could make sense of this, but I’m stumped.”

“Yeah.”

What else can he say? If they had their Lions, they’d be better outfitted, but they don’t. Lance scans the flatland, scrolling through fragmented planetary data on his visor.

“There’s plenty of vargas until dark if we leave now,” Lance says.

Keith pushes up from his knees with a huff. “Leave?”

“I’m picking up elevated terrain in that direction.” Lance indicates an easterly path with his hand. “Mountains could mean plants and babbling brooks and all that. There’s nothing in the desert."

_You would know_ , he thinks, but bites his tongue. Provoking is his default setting when it comes to Keith, but that’s not gonna help their situation. He’s gotta hit pause on pushing the red paladin’s buttons so they can figure this out. _You’re a team_ , says the Shiro voice in his head.

Keith glances to the east and frowns. “We should stay here with the pod.”

Lance should have expected this. Whatever plan he came up with was going to be wrong. The doesn’t stop him from being flabbergasted at Keith’s contrariety.

He throws up his hands. “The pod is wrecked.”

“I’m working on that.” Keith indicates the exposed panel. “It’s our best chance of getting out of here.”

“It also makes us a target. We’re literally the only thing sitting out here for miles. If the Galra end up tracking us, we’re sitting ducks.”

That, at least, gives Keith pause. His brows furrow into his thinking face.

“Look.” Lance marks the pod’s current position on his developing map of mystery planet. “I’ve marked our location. We can go see what’s out there and find our way back.”

“Okay.”

Lance startles. “Okay?”

It seems too easy.

“We can scout the elevated terrain, camp for the night, and make our way back tomorrow.”

“Alright. Good.”

They give the inactive pod one last inspection—still broken—and head out across the plain.

Walking on clouds is ethereal but disorienting. Lance tries to find the horizon with his eyes but the mirror effect makes the line hard to identify. He turns to look behind. The escape pod is getting smaller.

It’s progress.

They forge on at a steady pace—two parallel sets of paladins treading across the sky. In this surreal scenery, they look like the only two people in the world. He catches himself glancing at the purple staining his legs and forces his eyes up.

“You okay?” Keith asks.

Lance tenses. No, he’s not okay. He’s stranded on an uncharted planet with _Keith_ and no hope of rescue. None of this is okay. But that’s not really what the red paladin is asking. It’s more like: _are you up to this? Can I count on you?_

“Sore.” Lance shrugs and it cramps up his neck so he cracks it. “But no permanent damage, I think. You?”

“I’m fine.” After a beat, Keith continues without looking at him. “He would’ve killed you. That Galra soldier.”

Lance huffs. “Yes, I am aware of how war works.”

“I know that—” Keith grits his teeth, fists shaking at his sides. “I’m trying to tell you not to feel guilty. You took him out in order to survive. That’s all that matters. You survived.”

He looks over at the red paladin, a bit stunned, because that might be the longest paragraph the guy has ever spoken. Keith’s face is earnest. It pulls at something in Lance. He’s being offered what he desperately wants: absolution, validation. He feels unworthy.

“We’ve destroyed entire ships,” Lance replies, his voice hollow. “Why should I feel bad about one Galra sentry?”

“It’s different. Wasting a ship—that’s long range. You’re a long range fighter. It’s...abstract. At close range, violence is more _real_. Watching the life go out of someone’s eyes.”

Lance squirms uncomfortably. His armor seems too tight. He can’t see the sun, it’s obscured somewhere behind cottony clouds, but it’s too hot. Feels like it’s bearing right down on him.

He barks out a mirthless laugh. “Killed a lot of people, Keith?”

Keith glares. “I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too. You make a habit of taking the life from people’s eyes?”

The other paladin shoves him, just enough to send him off-balance—just enough to show he's struck a nerve. Lance stumbles to regain his footing. His splashing ripples in the mirrored ground.

“Stop being an ass,” Keith growls. “I’m trying to help.”

Lance rubs his arm. “I know.”

Keith scoffs and resumes walking. Lance follows. He studies the red paladin’s back, guilt gnawing at his conscience. So taking his apprehension out on Keith may not be his finest moment. Lance is just a bit vulnerable right now and Keith doesn’t exactly radiate supportive listener.

A murky gloom gathers in the sky, as though brought on by his soured mood. Fog rolls in, cool and dewy; it meets them on their way. The white crackled salt flat and its mirror of the cloud-dappled sky are shrouded in grey.

Lance’s stomach rumbles.

He digs out a little pouch of space goo the size of a ketchup packet. They keep these on their belts, just in case. It’s just the sort of thing one hopes they’ll never have to use, like the reject canned goods that Mom keeps in the back of the pantry for storm preparedness.

You think the Meal, Ready-to-Eat rations at the Garrison are bad, but then you’re faced with _space_ MRE’s. Lance blurts this aloud and Keith just kinda grunts in response, because he’s part-Galra and part-Neanderthal. But Lance has made an attempt at camaraderie and the Shiro voice in his head can shove it.

Lunch is over in one slurp. Lance stuffs the flattened packet back in his belt pouch, feeling unfulfilled. They walk on.

“I spy—”

“Nope.”

Lance huffs. “Changed my mind. We should’ve stayed with the pod.”

Keith’s face scrunches up. “This was _your_ plan.”

“It seemed shorter when we were standing still.”

His legs are tired. He glances behind but the fog has overtaken them. A distant noise cracks the air, short and rumbling like a small peal of thunder. The sound reverberates along the flat, making it difficult to pinpoint its source. They both whirl around, searching the grey for evidence.

“Look.”

Lance points up to the sky, spotting a fiery arc streaking amid the clouds.

Keith squints, following his line of sight. “Is something falling?”

“Going up.” He turns to his fellow paladin, smile plastered on his face. “That’s a chemtrail from a spaceship. There must be a port.”

Keith returns a smile, the enthusiasm infectious. “Let’s go.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, they set an escalating pace toward the departing spaceship’s trail. Its edges soften and dissipate among the clouds, the aurora-like rays becoming a beacon as they stride forward into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weekly updates planned. stay tuned! thanks for reading.


	2. Castaways

As they approach the port, the towering outlines of several structures come into view through the sweeping fog. They appear to be launch towers and cranes—the staging area for interstellar trade. The white salt beneath their feet gives way to black asphalt in stark contrast. A faint breeze stirs. Lance catches a whiff of sea salt in the air. He inhales deeply, then lets out a gratified sigh.

Keith looks at him sideways. “What?”

“It’s the ocean.” Lance breathes in the wondrous scent again. Cool and briny. “Can't you smell it?”

Keith sniffs the air and shrugs. “I guess?”

Lance makes a face. “You'd know.”

“I don’t see anyone,” Keith says, turning their attention back to the port.

Lance glances around. “Let’s look for a terminal building?”

Keith nods in agreement. They skirt the edge of the tarmac, lest any ships make an arrival over their heads. On their way, they pass a matching fleet of small, one-man vessels that resemble jet fighters. These smaller ships seem out of place compared to the tall structures and heavy machinery.

“Where’d you come from?” A voice calls from the nearest launch tower. “Freighter just left.”

The foreman approaches with quick steps. She is humanoid in shape with indigo skin, silvery hair pulled up in a thick braid, and four arms like an Unilu. Her gleaming orange eyes remind Lance of Midna—where’s Hunk or Pidge to share vintage pop culture references when you need them? The uniform discloses her position: a heavily-pocketed vest covering a rugged denim jumpsuit.

Lance speaks up, when in earshot without shouting. “Hey. Name’s Lance. Grumpy one’s Keith.”

She puts a hand to her chest. “Ingram.”

“We’re Paladins of Voltron.” He puts on his most charming smile. “Maybe you've heard of us?”

Ingram’s face contorts into a frown. “Heh?”

“Voltron. Y’know. Defender of the Universe.”

Keith goes for the direct approach. “We crashed our ship out on the flat. We need to get it up and running again.”

The foreman snorts. “Must’ve had a terrible pilot.”

Lance tries and fails to suppress a burst of laughter. Keith glowers at him.

“‘Course,” Ingram snarks. “He wasn’t one of ours.” She laughs heartily at the apparent joke. “Guess you need a lift into town, heh?”

The paladins share a look.

“Yup,” Lance decides.

The foreman is great. A cordial, easily trusting person with a tendency towards leading questions. It’s making this transition go swimmingly.

“Gotta make a call,” Ingram says. “Weren’t expecting anyone.”

With that, she gives a brusque nod and trudges back toward the launch tower.

Keith whirls on Lance. “What are you doing?”

“Relax.” Lance uses a soothing tone. “I’ve done this before. We have a meal, win them over with our charm and heroism, and they help us get a message to the Castle.”

“The last planet you landed on, a giant sea monster tried to eat you.”

Lance puffs up his chest. “And I vanquished said sea monster, thus saving the entire Bakku civilization. ”

“This could be a trap.”

“If the natives are unfriendly, we fight our way back to the pod. If they need our help, we help them. Paladins of Voltron, right?”

“One night.” Keith holds up a finger. “We resupply and find a way back.”

“Right.”

Ingram rejoins them. “You got lucky. Ferryman was already in.” She holds up a device that resembles an oversized barcode scanner. “Just gotta check your nano-inoculations.”

Keith makes a face. “Our nano-what-now?”

“Helmets off. Stare forward.”

The paladins share a confused look. Lance shrugs and pulls off his helmet. _When in space._ The red paladin also removes his helmet, but his skeptical expression remains.

The foreman holds the scanner up to Lance’s face, placing the business end over his eyes. She says something Lance doesn’t catch. He’s about to ask her to repeat it when there’s a beep and then a bright light. It stings for a moment, like having a stray eyelash. Lance pulls away and blinks and the discomfort is gone.

Ingram examines the readout and scoffs. “Your nano-bio is ancient. Hecka ancient.”

“Wait.” Keith looks back and forth, confused. “What did she just say?”

“Tell your friend the upgrade comes with translation matrix.”

Keith squints at Ingram then looks at his fellow paladin expectantly. Lance’s earlier puzzlement now clicks—he didn’t mishear her, she was speaking Zwaani.

“It’s the nano-tech,” Lance realizes. “Altean tech translates for us but apparently only when our Lions are around or our helmets are on. I think the nanites act like an internal audio translator.”

“No charge,” Ingram jokes.

Keith takes a deep breath and lets the foreman scan his eyes. There’s a beep and he too jerks backward, blinking rapidly. Lance watches him closely, curious if there’s any visual evidence of the nanites. That’s when he notices—

“Keith. Your cut...it healed.”

Lance holds up his helmet so Keith can appraise his reflection in the visor. The red paladin trails two fingers over his face where there was once a laceration.

The foreman shakes her head. “Obsolete nano-bio. You must come from some primitive planet.” She indicates a blue stripe painted on the blacktop, leading away from the launch tower. “Gordy’ll meet you at the dock, follow the blue line.”

“You’ve been really helpful,” Lance says. “Thank you.”

“Thanks,” Keith adds.

With a final wave, they start out along the blue line marking their path.

Gordy is a pleasant gentleman, blue-skinned and four-armed, with a scratchy beard of silver-white whiskers and a raspy voice. Both he and his sturdy little hydrofoil ferry boat await them along the small pier at the end of the blue line. The old man greets them with a warm smile and invites them aboard.

“Welcome to Zwaanen.”

“Hello.” Lance waves. “I’m Lance. That’s Keith.” He tries the name-drop again. “We’re Paladins of Voltron.”

The old man grunts. “Storm washed up flotsam and a freighter in.” He leads them across the ramp onto the ferry. “Busy day.”

“How far is this town?” Keith asks.

“Forty kilometer crossing to Pilottown. Won’t even take an ‘uur.”

Lance helps their captain retract the lines from the dock without prompting. Gordy watches him from the corner of his eye for a moment, realizes the off-worlder knows his way around a boat and lets him be.

“Trade’s slow since the embargo on Aulis. No reason to go through the belt. Traders go as far as Ismara and back where they came,” Gordy says as he takes the helm.  “Where you come from, then?”

“Arus,” Lance replies. “It’s way far out, you probably don’t know it.”

The old man starts the engine and gets them underway. “Heh. Them Imperialists driving good folks further n’ further.”

“You mean the Galra,” Keith surmises.

Gordy grunts. “Zwaani have got no love for them Imperialists.”

Keith nods. “That’s good to hear.”

“We’re fighting them,” Lance adds. “Voltron already kicked Zarkon’s butt, now we’re gonna take down the whole empire.” He inserts a few laser sound effects for dramatic effect. “And the universe is saved.”

“Young mensen, so full of spirit!” Gordy barks out a gravelly laugh that devolves into coughing.

The sea is placid, marked only by gentle waves that lap at the bow but barely disturb the vessel’s glide through the water. Their wake churns more movement than even the surf meeting the shore.

“Is it always this calm?” Lance asks.

“Munsea runs smooth,” Gordy says. “Sometimes a strong wind. Sometimes a storm.”

Keith perks up. “Like the storm last night.”

The ferryman nods. “First in nearly half a cycle. Take a breather. Crossing won’t take long.”

Lance walks to the fore of the deck, kneeling on a viewing bench and keeping watch for the first glimpse of their destination. A lofty structure rises above the mist. The tower spirals several hundred feet in the air, with a twisted rope-like shape that resembles a licorice whip. The large metal arms spiral more tightly toward the bottom, growing farther apart as they rise up, the curvature softening to a squared edge at the top.

“Whoa,” Lance breathes. “What _is_ that?”

“Fog tower,” Gordy calls from the helm. “Mesh collects water as the fog passes through.”

“It’s kinda pretty.”

Lance stands at the bow, observing their destination as it’s slowly revealed. Two more fog towers stand sentinel over the coast. A lighthouse sits at the end of the breakwater, its beacon flashing steadily. The intermittent ding of a fog bell increases volume. Finally, the harbor comes into view.

A small welcoming party receives them in Pilottown. They gather by the docks, exchanging quiet whispers as the ferry comes into port. The gathering of Pilottowners is a small sample, but reveals these commonalities among most of the planet’s inhabitants: humanoid form with four arms, a blue-green spectrum of skin color and shiny metallic shades of hair. Lance thinks he may see a few other species represented in the crowd. It’s a lot to take in. A tall villager with a turquoise complexion and short copper hair introduces himself as Burton.

“Travelers,” Burton says. “Zwaanen greets you.”

Lance introduces them once again as paladins, but casually, since their title doesn’t seem to carry much weight here.

Keith says, “We need repairs to our ship so we can get back to our team. Can you help us?”

Burton ruminates, then nods. “There is salvage at the shipyard.”

“We don’t really have money,” Lance admits.

Keith fixes him with a look. Something like _true, but_ _don’t tell them that_.

Burton gives them a gentle smile. “Your labor in kind will suffice.”

“How long will that take?” asks Keith.

“Ah!” Lance steps forward, extending his arm as though to block the red paladin from view. “What he means to say is: we’re grateful for your hospitality and any help you can give us.”

“You must be weary from your journey. My child will show you to quarters.” Burton turns to a younger Zwaani who looks to be about their age. “Maull.”

Maull is shorter than Burton, a fetching shade of aquamarine with copper hair woven in elaborate braids. She’s especially cute when she offers them a demure smile.

“Please, if you’ll follow me.”

Maull gestures toward the main thoroughfare that climbs up the the sloping hill of Pilottown from the harbor. They thank Burton once more and turn to follow. Lance hangs back, pulling Keith aside.

“I know you want to get back to everyone.” He keeps his voice low. “I do too. But you’re allowed to enjoy being here. Think of it like...shore leave.”

Keith flashes him an intense look. “Every moment we’re here is a moment our friends can’t form Voltron.”

“I know.” Lance exhales roughly. “I know. But we didn’t ask to be druid-blasted across the universe. We should make the most of it. Bring another ally around to our side.”

Keith nods and picks up his pace to keep up with Maull. So they’re agreed.

Probably.

The welcoming party falls away as they go, until just Maull is parading them up the street.

“Flotsam attract some excitement,” she explains. “Most folks never leave Zwaanen. Just pilots.”

“Your pilots are fighting against the Galra?” Keith asks.

She sputters a laugh. “Echt no! Pilots operate the lightships that guide trade freighters through the asteroid belt. They know Minfell like their palms. Zwaani are the best pilots.”

“So we’ve heard,” Lance says.

“Though it’s admirable you manage.” She gestures at his torso. “As bimanual creatures.”

Lance wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m bi-lotsa-things.”

Keith interjects, “Can your lightships send out a transmission?”

Maull shakes her head. “Don’t know. Burton manages the pilots. I’m a builder.”

“Burton’s your dad?” Lance inquires.

“Burton and Rowland are my elten. Clementie and Hunn are my paten.”

He tries to wrap his head around that. “You have four parents?”

“Yes. Two couplets enter a quartette. They settle in quarters and multiply.” She flushes and glances away, leading Lance to believe he’s stumbled into _birds and the bees_ territory. ”Paladins have less? Or more?”

Lance shrugs a shoulder. “Depends.”

Maull stops them at a whitewashed stone building with the word _Driftwood_ where one might expect an address. She indicates a scuffed green door with a brass knocker shaped like a nautical knot.

“Quarters should meet your needs,” she says. “I will come round in the morn. Rest well.”

“Thanks, Maull.”

The door opens up on a small foyer, vaulted ceiling hovering high above stairs that rise up to the flat on the second floor. It has a beach cottage feel. Large windows draped in gauzy fabric let in the grey afternoon light. The tallest window, over the door, looks out over the main street they just climbed from the harbor.

The eggshell-colored walls of the living area are mostly bare, and the sparse furniture rather bland with its beige tones. Still, the area is somehow cozy. Intimate yet functional. A two-sided fireplace carved into the back wall appears to heat two rooms: the living room and a bedchamber. Back through a small hallway they find that treasured space: one bedroom with two single beds, set a few feet apart, against the far wall. Each bed has two downy pillows and a fluffy ivory duvet that looks so heavenly, Lance can’t help but test it out. First, the armor plates have to come off, then he throws himself onto the softness. He’s not disappointed.

Lance hums into the pillow. “I’mma sleep forever.”

Keith peeks into the bureau closest to the door. “There are clothes.” He rifles through the drawers with a wary frown. “It’s almost like they expected us.”

Lance lifts his head. “The foreman called ahead from the shipyard. Ooh. Or maybe they’re psychic.”

“Maybe.”

Lance is equal parts sleepy, hungry, curious, and grimy. With the presence of a cushioned horizontal surface, exhaustion is winning out. He digs through one of the drawers to find a soft, comfy tank and pants that appear to be sleepwear.

The blue-tiled en suite is different than the Castle bathrooms. There are towels, a faucet and a floor drain, but no tub or sink basin. Instead, there’s a short stool and a long-handled bucket. The bedroom boasts a washstand with a ceramic bowl pitcher, like some Victorian period drama. Zwaanen, it seems, has a need to conserve freshwater. Lance does a brief wash-up and swishes with some anise-flavored foaming mouthwash he finds in the medicine chest.

It’s not completely dark outside, something more like twilight, which is just as well. They haven’t found any light switches.

Lance crawls beneath cushy covers. Keith follows right behind him. The red paladin talks tough but Lance catches Keith’s gratified sigh as he sinks into his own decadent bed.

“So this is what it’s like,” he murmurs.

Keith makes a sleepy, inquisitive sound. “Whatsat?”

“A universe without Zarkon.”


	3. Shore Leave

Keith doesn’t remember falling asleep. He wakes unsettled, expecting his room in the Castle. Expecting an alarm or a call from Allura to rouse him. As alertness returns, his memory sets into place.

He’s alone. In an unprecedented move, the blue paladin has pried himself from bed first. Keith autopilots through his morning routine and suits up to face the day.

“Good morning.”

Lance offers the singsong greeting from a high-top table across from the kitchenette. Now that he’s washed it, his hair has more wave. The strands near the hairline curl sweetly about his face. He’s got his black undersuit on but only the lower plates of armor. The legs, Keith notices, are now scrubbed clean of Galra blood.

“Our neighbor,” Lance continues, “Truitt—lovely alien lady—runs the bakery downstairs. And is also maybe our landlord? She sends her regards. Also, half a dozen scones. I found beach plum jam in the cupboard.” He nods toward the kitchen counter. “There’s a drink in the kettle. They call it Cyana. It’s sorta like coffee.”

Keith pours a mug of the hot beverage and slathers an herbal scone with jam.

“Not bad,” he remarks of his first sip of Cyana. He takes another long drag, the warmth soothing his scratchy throat.

“Beats space goo any day.” Lance jumps up. “Oh, and check this out.” He rushes over to one of the drawers and holds up some utensils. “Sporks! Hunk was right.”

“Guess so.”

He plods back to the table, a bit more somber. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Me too.”

Keith tucks into his breakfast, appreciating the quiet moment to take in the surroundings. Lance has opened a set of patio doors across from the high-top. Their small balcony and the front bay window provide a sweeping view of town, down the sloping streets to the water.

The sky is still blanketed in gray clouds but the surface fog has dissipated overnight, bringing Pilottown into focus. Short adobe buildings with terracotta roofs line smooth-worn cobblestone streets. The town has a Mediterranean architecture feel; all whitewashed walls with colorful doors and shutters.

He spots a few boats at sea, patches of white on the backdrop of murky blue water.

The wharf is bustling with people today—fisherman unloading their catch and customers gathering to browse the market. Pilottowners hurry by; some on foot, many others on cycles. There are a few small utility vehicles too, puttering up and down the street carrying various goods in the cargo box.

A knock interrupts the quiet. They jog downstairs and open the door to find Maull.

She gives them a polite smile. “Ingram has recovered your vessel.”

 

Keith tries to quell the nervous energy buzzing in his chest as they cross the Hoorn Strait to return to the shipyard. More than anything, he hopes for good news. The quicker they can fix the ship, the quicker they can reunite with the team. And resume their search for Shiro.

It’s been weeks of dead-ends and failures. He feels Shiro’s absence like a phantom limb. Without their leader, the team is fractured and strained. Without his confidant, Keith is detached, aimless. A shadow has fallen over Voltron. They need a win.

 

It’s not good news.

 

“Don’t stock Imperialist salvage,” Ingram tells them.

Keith shrugs a shoulder. “That’s fine. We can use whatever you’ve got.”

“Imperialist machines only take Imperialist parts.”

The red paladin narrows his eyes. “You haven’t even _tried_.”

“Your dinky lifeboat is junked,” Ingram waves a dismissive hand at the pod. “Not even worth salvage. This craft is short range—even less sturdy than a lightship. How’d you make it so far?”

Lance scratches at the back of his neck. “We kinda accidentally crashed through a wormhole.”

“Heh. Wonder you’re alive.”

“If we can’t get to them, we need to send a message to our friends,” Keith says. “So they know where to find us.”

Ingram scowls. “Imperialists?”

“No way!” Lance balks. “We’re _fighting_ the Galra.”

Her face softens. “Your friends are in the Cadmeyan cluster?”

The paladins share a blank look. Keith admits, “We don’t know.”

“Alope galaxy is as far as we contact,” Ingram explains. “Transmissions are encrypted. Only reach Trade Alliance vessels.”

Lance pulls off his helmet and holds it out to her. “What about this? It’s linked to the Castle.”

The foreman takes the headgear, turning it over in her hands.

“When our friend Pidge was stranded in a space junkyard,” Lance goes on. “She rigged up a device that sent out the Green Lion energy. Could you do something like that? Reverse engineer an encryption?”

Ingram hums. “Possible. Will have to get approval,” She gestures to the machinery and monitors of the control room. “All this is Alliance equipment. Can only transmit in our system.”

“A proximity broadcast.” Lance turns to Keith. “Like the Arecibo Message.”

“It’s a start,” Keith says.

 

Keith feels heavier when they board the ferry back to Pilottown, like he might sink the boat with all the crap that’s weighing him down. He needed a win.

“That’s good news,” Lance says conversationally.

Keith scowls. “That we’re stuck here?”

“No.” He deflates a bit. “Not that part. Ingram said there’s an alliance. A whole system of planets way out here that’s resisted the Galra Empire.”

“They’re not fighting, though,” Keith points out. “Just avoiding the war.”

“Okay, well, they’re neutral. Space Switzerland.”

Keith slumps back against the bench. “I can’t believe they won’t fix the pod.” He groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “What are we gonna do?”

“Sit tight and wait until they find us. Allura _will_ find us,” Lance says, with a certainty Keith wishes he felt. “She’s done it before. The Castle has super mystical science powers.”

“The Castle is also ten thousand years old. It’s not the most cutting-edge technology in the universe anymore.”

Lance scrunches his nose. “Uh, yeah it is. Hello, Voltron.”

“I’m not trying to sell Voltron short. I’m just saying that Allura and Coran were asleep for a long time. A lot of things are the same, like the Balmera, but it’s also possible that some planets have continued to advance this whole time. Altean technology hasn’t.”

“Because Altea’s gone,” Lance says, eyes downcast.

“Yeah.” Keith sighs. “I know we’re gonna get back, _eventually_...I just wish we knew how.”

Lance gives him a wan smile. “You and me both.”

 

Maull meets them at the dock. She’s sympathetic, but doesn’t seem surprised by the news.

“This eve,” she says, “we celebrate the Feastday of _Drogequinox_. Please come.” She flashes a knowing smile. “You likely don’t have supper plans.”

 

The clothes that Keith finds in the wardrobe are analogous to what he’s seen the townsfolk wearing. The fabric resembles linen, cool and tightly woven. The tops are hip-length with drop armholes—likely to accommodate four arms—and a banded split v-neckline. There’s also a fabric belt and adjustable drawstring trousers.

It’s not ideal, but their civvies are back on the Castle. They’ll blend in. Keith picks a gray and scarlet set that he doesn’t completely hate.

He finds Lance in the common room, folded in half; an impressive display of flexibility. It takes Keith an embarrassingly long moment to realize the paladin’s performing a standing forward bend. Lance is wearing his own charcoal and navy version of Zwaani clothing. Even here, their paladin colors persist.

“Hey.” Lance unfurls so he’s upright. “Can you show me how to tie my belt like yours?”

Keith startles out of his daze. “Sure.”

Lance unties his admirable attempt at the knotted belt, allowing Keith to start from scratch. He wraps the band around the blue paladins’ waist. Then right over left, pull, tighten. Left over right, pull, tighten.

Lance watches in quiet admiration. “I guess you chose the martial arts elective at Garrison.”

“Taekwondo.”

“I did marksmanship.”

Keith smiles. “Good thing.”

Lance beams, eyes sparkling. He’s incredibly receptive to praise. It’s oddly charming. Keith finishes the knot and steps back, admiring his handiwork. Lance seems pleased.

“I’m pretty psyched for this Drogequinox party” Lance’s eyes go dreamy. “Do you think there’ll be dancing?”

“No idea. But it’s a good opportunity for reconnaissance.”

Lance crosses his arms. “Normal people call it ‘socializing.’”

“By all means, have a good time. Just don’t get too cozy. This isn’t a vacation.”

“Uh-huh.” Lance smirks. “It’s kind of a vacation, though.”

“Guteven, neighbors.”

There’s an alien perched on their balcony who doesn’t appear to be Zwaani. She’s in traditional garb and her amber hair is up in a braided crown—but she’s only got two arms. Her complexion is amber with rust-colored stripes. There’s something vaguely fox-like about her, though she’s not particularly fuzzy.

Her boldness is strange—but then again, maybe not. The doors and windows in Pilottown have no locks. It seems everyone goes where they please.

Lance raises an eyebrow. “How’d you get up here?”

“Jumped,” says the alien.

“Do you need something?” Keith inquires.

“Thought I’d introduce myself to the flotsam.”

Lance throws up his hands. “Why does everyone keep calling us that?”

“That’s what Zwaani call off-worlders. Flotsam, junk that washes up after a storm.” She smirks. “Literally, for you. Living salvage.”

“Okay,” Lance says, drawing out the word. “Well, I’m Lance. That’s Keith. You are?”

The alien puts a hand to her chest. “Eretti.” She pads forward into the room, scrutinizing them. “You look like the old ones. Altos.”

“Alteans,” Keith amends.

“Mmm.”

“Nope, we’re human.” Lance glances over at Keith. “Mostly human. We _are_ Paladins of Voltron, though.”

Eretti’s black eyes go impossibly wider. “The Alto’s monster.”

“It’s actually a giant fighter robot made up of smaller robot lions that combine to defend the universe,” Lance says. “But yeah.”

“Definitely Altos.”

“Humans,” Lance insists.

Keith asks, “Are you flotsam too?”

“Was. Now I’m Zwaani. You can tell Zwaani—” she indicates the mark of a stylized eight-pointed compass star branded on her skin below the jugular notch, centered above the ‘v’ of her tunic— “by the scorch mark.” She swipes a finger under each clavicle. “Pilots get wings here.”

Lance flinches. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“For a min. Then your nano-bio starts healing.” She leans against the wall, settling in. “You got assigned a trade? What’s your gnyack?”

“Nothing yet,” Lance says.

“We aren’t staying long," Keith adds. "Right now, we should probably get going to this feast thing.”

“Yes.” Eretti straightens. “I’m to escort you.”

She walks right between them toward the stairs. Keith catches the blue paladin’s eye. Lance shrugs. _When on Zwaanen_. He closes the patio doors and they follow their quirky alien sitcom neighbor to an alien party.

 

The park is centrally located, a clearing between buildings about midway down the hillside. An assortment of torches and lanterns that illuminate the gathering aren’t strictly necessary—there’s several hours of daylight left—but they add a festive touch. The area is packed. It looks as though most of town has showed up. Many Zwaani are mingling, gently gripping cheeks in hand and kissing foreheads. This appears to be a greeting gesture between close family and friends, akin to cheek kissing.

A buzz goes through the crowd when they arrive. It doesn’t give the feeling of suspicion or judgement so much as curiosity. Flotsam really do stir up excitement. A few outgoing Zwaani approach them. Lance greets them, eager to socialize.

Eretti pulls Keith aside. “Your partner has made the typical blunder. Food first. Mingle later.”

She steers him to the buffet. The fare is more Earth-like than most of the food they’ve encountered so far. There’s a plethora of seafood, starches, and sauces. Eretti fills up her own plate and makes suggestions as they go down the line.

She points to a pickled fish filet. “Very salty.” And another dish with a condiment. “That’s sweet and that’s sour, eat those together. And this!” Eretti takes it upon herself to plop several kebabs onto his plate. “Good. You will like it.”

They find seats at the long community table across from Maull, who gives an amiable nod. Keith notices her scorch mark, now that he’s been made aware of them. Most of the adults and adolescents have them, while the smaller children don’t, leading him to believe it’s a rite of passage.

“Eretti has brought you,” Maull says. “I’m glad.”

Eretti grins toothily. “I’m a good provider.”

Maull giggles and averts her eyes, turning her attention back to their guest. “Here is my brother Argall.” She indicates a younger Zwaani—about ten, if Keith had to guess. She moves on to her peers. “Ryves, Virden, Leas. Here is Keith. There is his partner Lance, entertaining Mey and Truitt just now.”

Maull’s friends each greet him with a nod. They look like they’re dying to question him, but politely hold off as he digs into his food. He tries to put himself in their shoes. What would he have asked an Earthbound alien? _Do you mean us harm? What else is out there? Are we safe?_ If he knew then what he knows now, he might have dreaded the answer.

The Zwaani converse amongst themselves about local happenings. Keith listens for anything useful. Leas is from another village and she look forward to visits; it seems she’s a relation to Maull.

“Are you a founder, Keith?” Leas pauses, then clarifies. “A smithy?”

“Nah. I’m a decent mechanic but not a metal-worker.”

“Shame.” Leas smiles. “We could use a foundry apprentice in Leipsic.”

Virden inquires, “What _is_ your gnyack?”

“I’m...not sure what that means,” Keith admits.

“Your talent—ah, you might say, your calling,” Eretti explains. “Natural skill that determines your vocation.”

“Shiro says I have a good instinct for flying,” Keith says, a bit forlorn.

“How are you finding Zwaanen?” asks Ryves.

“It’s fine,” Keith replies. “Pilottown is nice.”

Everyone giggles. Maull elbows Leas playfully. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t want to be here. What being stranded means for their team. It’s not their fault.

“How was your planet?” Leas asks

“Green. I think that’s how most people would describe it. I mean...not where I lived. That was a desert. It was more...brown.”

“Your hair looks soft.” Maull’s little brother blurts out.

Maull winces. “Argall!”

The boy juts his lip out and furrows his brow, not comprehending what he’s done wrong.

“Uh...thanks.” Keith smiles, waving off Maull’s concern.

“Do you plait it?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Can I plait it?”

Keith chuckles. “Now?”

“No,” Argall declares, as though it’s obvious. “After gambols.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Keith,” Leas interjects. “What dish do you favor?”

“I like this salad.” Keith points to a vegetable relish on his plate. “Reminds me of salsa.”

“Your feastdays, are they similar?” Virden asks.

Keith shifts, a bit overwhelmed by their attention. “I didn’t really celebrate a lot of holidays growing up, but I think they’re all mostly the same. Food, decorations, people. So, yeah, a lot like this”

Argall asks, “What’s your favorite?”

“Um.” He pauses to think. “Halloween. Kids dress up in costume. At night they go door-to-door and neighbors give them candy.”

“In darkness?” Maull’s eyes go wide. “This is safe?”

Keith snickers. “More or less.”

Lance, bearing a full plate of food, plops down on the other side of Eretti. “Ryves, my main man! Mey tells me you’re an apothecary.”

Ryves nods. “I’m Clementie’s apprentice, yes.”

“So you can hook a guy up with a skincare regimen?”

“Possible,” says Ryves. “Come by for a consult.”

Argall, having climbed under the table, pops up on the bench beside Eretti. “Keith, play gambols with me.”

Keith joins Argall at one of the gaming tables and proceeds to have his ass handed to him by a Zwaani child. The activity is a numbers game called School and Shoal played with three dice. He can tell by Argall’s fierce concentration, and the little smirk on his face before the last turn, that there’s a strategy. After three consecutive losses, Keith is still trying to figure it out.

A group of performers start playing folksy music in the far corner of the park. More partygoers migrate from the food tables to the gaming area. Gambols is in full swing.

Eretti leans down to murmur conspiratorily in Argall’s ear. “Maybe our new flotsam would make good trappers for Trawler’s Net. What do you think?”

“Yeah!” Argall jumps up, abandoning their game.

In the courtyard near the band, where one might expect a dance floor, a three-by-three grid is drawn in chalk on the flagstone pavement. Eretti and Maull tug both paladins into the center square. They’re instructed to hold hands, a direction to which Lance submits with some begrudging. Not just one pair—they grip each other’s hands: left holding left and right holding right. A silken scarf is tied around each of their joined hands, making it more difficult to let go.

Maull and her friends, the _fissen_ , stand in neighboring squares. Once the game starts, they’ll be free to move, so long as they stay within the grid.

The object of Trawler’s Net is for the trappers, Keith and Lance, to catch each _fissen_ player, one by one, in their “net”—or the circle created by their arms with their hands clasped together. Once a _fissen_ is caught within the net, the trappers bring their captured _fissen_ to the center square. To win, the trappers must secure all the _fissen_ in the central square before the song ends.

It smacks suspiciously of a patented Coran training exercise.

“On your game, Mullet,” Lance quips. “We’re representing the good name of Voltron.”

Keith smirks. “Try and keep up.”

Their cooperation starts about as well as expected. Competition is their default. He and Lance are out of step, yanking in opposite directions and scowling when the other doesn’t follow.

“Go right,” Lance orders. Keith steps to the right and Lance glares, tugging the other way. “Not _your_ right, _my_ right.”

To capture a _fissen_ , they must lift their tied arms above the player’s head and bring them down quickly to trap them in the net between them. It’s somewhere between square dancing and playground games—either way, requiring more coordination than the paladins can muster. Lance bumps into Keith with an _oof_. The jaunty music seems to mock their ineffective efforts and their prey happily takes advantage of their bungling. Keith steps wrong, landing on Lance’s foot.

Lance grimaces. “Watch it!”

Keith tries to activate the spectre of their paladin bond. It’s a unexercised muscle, tough to grasp, especially without their Lions. It’s perhaps not even possible, but Keith is determined and a determined red paladin can be a powerful force. Lance startles and looks over, wide-eyed. He can tell when the other paladin opens up—there’s an odd vulnerable feeling, like when you know you’re being watched.

Keith tries to send a clear impression: _You lead or I lead, but just fucking decide and let’s do this shit._

Lance returns a humble but firm plea for submission. _Let me lead. I can do this._ His face is earnest. Keith goes pliant, allowing the blue paladin to direct him.

“Watch my footwork,” the blue paladin says aloud.

Their technique improves promptly.

Lance projects a mental image of his strategy: two steps to Keith’s left...if they can lift their arms in sync, they’ll be right over Mey’s head. Keith complies, watching Lance’s feet and heeding Lance’s mental directions. It’s not unlike their cooperation in Voltron—they get on the same wavelength and move as one fluid being.

They manage to capture Mey, along with Ryves and Leas. Finally, they bring Eretti to the center square just before the music runs out. Half: a failing grade in most circles, but the Zwaani youth don’t seem disappointed. They clap and congratulate the paladins on their performance. It’s a commendable first try.

Being ‘it’ excuses them from round two. A new group takes the grid and the band strikes up with a similar yet distinct song. With four-armed trappers, only the top two arms are bound. Still, it’s quite a hilarious contest to watch. Keith cringes internally when he pictures what he and Lance must have looked like, cavorting around like that.

The paladins retire back to the community picnic table. Argall brings him a beverage and a suncake, perhaps to sweeten him up to the prospect of having his hair braided. Keith accepts the offerings and the Zwaani boy gleefully climbs up to sit on the table behind his subject.

Keith is hesitant to try his drink after the nunvill experience, but is pleased to find it palatable. The suncake is sweet and citrusy.

Argall weaves plaits into the Keith’s hair while Maull challenges Lance to School and Shoal. Maull’s copper hair, in its intricately braided pattern, shines in the light of a nearby lantern.

“You braid your sister’s hair?” he asks.

“‘Course,” Argall confirms. “My elten taught me. We weave plaits in the morn, comb them out at night.”

Keith smiles. “That sounds nice.”

“Part of Belonging,” Argall says.

“Belonging?”

“Belonging is community.” Eretti pipes up. “People beholden to each other. Zwaani are Belonging. You will see at Verbinden.”

Keith turns to look at Eretti, who’s across the table, but Argall tuts and shifts his head so he's looking forward again. Keith turns his attention back to Lance and Maull’s game.

He can practically see the gears turning in the blue paladin’s brain, trying to unlock the invincible secret. It’s obvious when Lance cracks it. Lance whoops in victory and his opponent groans, aware that the jig is up.

“Lance!” Argall calls. “Your Keith’s made pretty. Look.”

Keith reaches up and smooths his fingers over Argall’s work. The boy’s managed to plait two layers of waterfall braids on each side of Keith’s head that seem to meet in the back. The pattern feels intricate under his touch; it could look either elegant or ridiculous. Lance’s thumbs up is promising.

“Good job, buddy.” He winks. “You turned the ugly duckling into a swan.”

Typical.

Maull comes over to collect her brother. “Flotsam have seen much excitement these past days. Let’s give them leave to rest.”

Argall pouts but finally relents with the promise they’ll see each other again soon. Eretti plies them with leftover food and suncakes. As dusk begins to darken the sky, they say their goodbyes and make their way back to the apartment.

“Man, that was awesome,” Lance gushes. “I haven’t had that good a time since…” He purses his lips in thought. “Huh. It’s hard to remember.”

“It was fun.”

Lance gives an exaggerated gasp. “You had _fun_? Is that allowed?”

Keith elbows him but it’s playful and good-natured. Lance laughs it off, the sound of his mirth carrying through the quiet streets. They pass a lamplighter igniting street braziers one-by-one. Zwaanen is a strange juxtaposition of technologies.

“We gotta tell Coran about Trawler’s Net.”

Keith pulls a face. “He’ll just make us do it again. With _gladiators_.”

“If we have to do it, Pidge and Hunk have to do it.”

“That’ll be clumsy with the height difference.”

Lance smirks. “Exactly.”

They return to their quarters at Driftwood in high spirits, the festival proving a favorable diversion.

 

Keith stirs, disturbed from his dozing by sounds of distress. Lance writhes and wails in his bed, tormented by a nightmare and unable to wake. It’s pitch black in their room—dark as desert nights even though they’re in town. Zwaanen, he suspects, has no moon.

“Lance,” he calls. Then once more, louder.

The whimpering persists.

Keith carefully scoots over toward the other paladin’s bed, sitting on the edge and feeling his way to Lance shoulders. He shakes the blue paladin, not unkindly, trying to bring him out it gradually.

It’s hard to tell exactly when Lance wakes. His wails turn into sobs and he curls into himself, as though that will hide the fact that he’s crying. Keith feels for him. He climbs onto the bed, gathering Lance up in his arms and holding him gently as he calms down.

“What if the Galra conquer Earth?” Lance’s voice is small and wet-sounding. He’s trembling. “Or blow it up?”

Keith squeezes his eyes shut, summoning strength. “Allura won’t let that happen.”

“What if she can’t stop them? We’re stuck here. We can’t do anything.”

“Our friends are pretty formidable, even without us,” Keith insists. “They won’t let that happen.”

Lance finds Keith’s hands and grips them tightly. “I killed that sentry.”

“I know.”

“Do you think…” He falters. Swallows. Tries again. “Do you think my Mom will understand?”

“I think she’ll be glad her son is alive.”

“She’s gonna think I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster.” Lance chokes up and Keith squeezes his hands. “You’re _not_.”

Lance relinquishes the other paladin’s hands in favor of a clingy embrace. Keith waits for him to still before running his fingers up and down Lance’s back in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

“Hey.” Lance sniffs. “Back on the prison ship your bayard turned into a gun.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Keith answers honestly. “I needed to hit the sentry from a distance. I thought about it really hard and it changed.”

“Like when you formed the sword for the first time?”

Keith smiles. “A lot like that, actually.”

“Can you show me how?”

“I’ll try. It may be a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

“Mmm. I’ll threaten you with bodily harm. Should getcha going.”

“Try to sleep, Lance.”

Lance’s tremors abate. He snuffles and settles down, making no attempt to extract himself. For the second time, Keith drifts off with the blue paladin snuggled against his side, listening to Lance’s breathing even out.

 


	4. Captain, Crew, and Cargo

Keith crowds Lance in his twin bed. During the night they shifted and now Keith is near the middle, huddled close so that Lance is perilously near the edge. It’s somehow endearing and annoying at the same time. The red paladin looks infinitely more angelic when he’s asleep—a sight Lance never thought he’d see and is sorta creepily savoring.

Right.

This doesn’t have to be weird so he’s not gonna make it weird.

Lance stretches, willing his limbs into action. The movement jostles his bedfellow who makes a muffled little sound and blinks his eyes open.

“You okay?”

Keith’s voice is still thick with sleep but his eyes are keen and his brow knitted in concern. This sincerity begs sincerity. Lance tries to get a grip and be genuine.

“Yeah. Thanks, for...you know. Waking me and everything.”

“No problem.” Keith raises his head then looks puzzled when Lance guffaws. “What?”

“Your hair.” Lance sputters, trying to contain his laughter. “Half the braids came undone. You look like Einstein and Pippi Longstocking’s love child.”

Lance is unceremoniously ejected from the bed and hits the floor with a yelp.

“Guess I get first dibs on the bathroom, then.”

“No way!” Lance scrambles with the duvet. “That’s not how dibs works!”

Keith has already shut himself in the bathroom.

 

A veritable feast of leftovers awaits them at breakfast. No one comes knocking and they’re not committed to anything today beyond checking on Ingram’s progress. The units in Pilottown don’t have individual telephone lines. There’s a central line in the harbormaster’s office to reach the spaceport.

They’ll be heading to the wharf, at any rate.

Loathe as Lance is to forfeit an opportunity to relax, he can tell Keith is preoccupied and restless. It’s out of the goodness of his heart that he suggests they head to the beach for a quick training session, to try and unlock the power to change their bayards at will.

Sand is more challenging to trek, but more forgiving when it comes to falls. They find an unoccupied stretch of beach to the left of the harbor, adjacent to the pier. Lance is initially distracted by the glittering row of debris at the tideline. The colorful shells are mostly broken, so it’s hard to tell their original shape.

Keith joins his investigation for a moment, then suggests they better get to it before some Zwaani come along wanting the beach.

Lance thinks _sword, sword, sword_ but his bayard manifests his usual gun.

Keith snorts. “You didn’t think it was gonna be that easy.”

“No,” he gripes, disappointment evident in his voice. He shakes it off, rallying. “Maybe if you attack me.”

“You sure? This isn’t the training deck.”

“Exactly. Training wheels are off, so it should work, yeah?”

The first attempt is a bust. Keith dashes forward with his usual zeal but his feet catch in the soft, pliable sand. He knocks into Lance bodily and they collapse in a winded heap. They move to the narrow band of packed sand above the lapping water.

Keith advances from a few yards off, giving Lance adequate time to prepare. Lance raises his inactive bayard but holds out until his attacker is dangerously close. A troubled look flashes on Keith’s face as his sword arcs toward the blue paladin’s chest.

An instant before disaster, Lance’s bayard transforms into a blade. It’s different from the red paladin’s sword—its grip more steeply angled, the blade curved slightly, not unlike a cutlass. He blocks the strike and pushes Keith back.

“Ha!” Lance whoops in victory. “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”

“But can you use it?” Keith quips, and rushes him again.

_No_ is the predictable answer.

Lance is put on the defensive, narrowly guarding the red paladin’s blows. At some point, he remembers he has a shield at his disposal and calls it up. He finds a rhythm, blocking Keith’s attacks more effectively and pinpointing where the red paladin’s aggressive, unruly movements create an opening.

He catches Keith’s sword from below and whirls his own blade in a tight circle that sends the red sword flying, leaving Keith disarmed. Lance barely has a moment to celebrate. Keith produces his Galra blade from nowhere—like the fucking Highlander—and charges.

Keith knocks Lance to the ground, awakened luxite blade to the blue paladin’s throat. Without his helmet, Lance is unusually vulnerable. He gapes up at his subduer with wide eyes. Keith seems to realize his own excessive hostility and backs away to sit on his haunches.  
  
“Lance,” he murmurs, contrite. “I’d _never_ hurt you.”

Lance chuckles dryly, waving off his own panic. “Pfft. I know that.”

Keith narrows his eyes skeptically, but doesn’t comment. He stands, offering Lance a hand.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Lance gets to his feet and cracks his neck. “Now it’s your turn to eat sand.”

Lance gets a better handle on his new weapon as they practice. A few clashes in, it becomes clear that facing his own aggression has Keith rattled. The good scruple tells Lance he should confirm his friend is okay, but his competitive nature roars louder.

He leverages Keith’s distraction. Lance channels all his focus into the rhythm of the fight. He swings wide, knocking the red paladin’s sword out of his way. Keith’s center is open. Lance lunges forward, pinning his opponent to the ground.

“Gotcha.”

Lance hovers over Keith, grips his shoulders. He’s high on triumph, panting from the exertion and flashing a cocky smirk. Keith is docile beneath him, he looks almost...impressed.

The energy shifts to something softer and altogether more dangerous.

“Excellent game!” a voice calls.

The sound of clapping follows. Their sparring has attracted an audience: a group of Zwaani children sitting on the sea wall. Lance feels his face flush, the gravity of the moment catching up to him. He stands and throws his arms up, proclaiming himself the winner, but Argall will have none of it.

“If tackles are the object,” Argall says coolly, “then the score is tied.”

Lance balks. Such betrayal—though really he should’ve expected it from the leader of the Keith fan club. “We’ll see about that. Best two out of three!”

“I think that’s enough for today.” Keith stands, dusting the sand from his armor. “We’ve earned lunch.”

The blue paladin pouts, cheated out of a chance to prove himself, but he can’t deny he’s worked up an appetite and Keith being agreeable is not an opportunity to be squandered.

 

The outdoor market at the wharf features mostly raw ingredients, seafood and vegetables especially, but there are some booths with prepared foods. Wontons served in broth, a seaweed salad “nest” cradling a cooked bird’s egg, and some kind of root vegetable croquettes are among the offerings.

One vendor boasts some small, gnarly-looking barbequed squid on a skewer, tentacles and all. Each paladin dares the other they won’t eat it, so of course they have to get two. There’s a brief staring contest; a game of chicken as to who will take the first bite. In the end, they agree on a count of three.

Lance braces himself for the worst, but is surprised to find the meat tender rather than slimey. The texture’s still odd—the first bite is tentacles, after all—but the flavor of the tangy sauce overpowers any fishy taste.

“Weird.” He chews, considering. “I don’t hate it?”

“Tastes like ikayaki.”

“Yeah, like calamares rellen—wait.” Lance narrows his eyes. “You’ve had this before?” Keith’s shit-eating smirk is answer enough. He points an accusing finger at the red paladin. “You played me!”

Keith laughs, full and hearty. “You like it, though.”

“Where’d you get squid in the desert?”

“I didn’t always live in the desert.”

Before Lance can ask him to elaborate, a commotion near the harbormaster’s shack demands their attention. A crowd has gathered, exchanging distressed chatter amongst themselves. The gossip makes its way down the line of booths.

“What’s happening?” Keith asks the squid vendor.

“Vessel crashed in the Minfell,” the vendor says. “Pilots called for rescue.”

The intention passes between them without a word. They have a duty to help. The paladins sprint toward the excitement. A throng circles a hovercraft preparing to launch from its offshore berth near the ferry dock.

Keith nudges his way through the horde, stepping up to the gangway. He addresses Burton, already at the helm of the vehicle.

“We’re coming with you,” Keith calls over the whir of the engine.

Burton scoffs. “Recovery is Pilot’s work.”

“As Paladins of Voltron, we swore an oath to help those in need.”

“Plus we’re already wearing spacesuits,” Lance adds helpfully.

Burton stares them down, assessing their tenacity. With a sigh, he relents. “Very well.” Both paladins hasten aboard. “You will follow orders.”

Lance recognizes Virden from the festival. The Pilot gives them a slight nod but otherwise doesn’t interact. No one else acknowledges them. For the first time since arriving on Zwaanen, it’s clear that they’re outsiders.

They make it to the spaceport in record time. While the Pilots suit up, the paladins seek out Ingram to reclaim Lance’s helmet. She’s waiting for them outside the main supply tower. The foreman wishes them well before they’re wrangled into the salvage ship.

Burton takes the controls and a pilot named Sykes briefs them on the situation.

“Small Calobasan freighter.” Sykes reports. “Alliance designation _Truwydah._ Estimated crew of ten. Impact at 4e:23g:7i:51v. Multiple hull breaches suspected based on the distress call.”

“Wasn’t a pilot guiding them through the belt?” Keith asks.

Virden answers, “Some traders don’t want to spend capital on a pilot. Think they can make it through on their own.”

“Collisions are thrice as likely with no pilot,” Sykes adds.

Sykes brings up a view of their surroundings on a monitor and the paladins get their first glimpse of Minfell: a treacherously dense circumstellar cloud of asteroids between the planets Zwaanen and Kuyroc. The distance between asteroids comprising the belt averages only a kilometer. Rocky dwarf planets in the cloud disturb the solar orbit of the smaller asteroids, creating regions of increased impact probability. The Pilots call these areas shoals. _Truwydah_ , it turns out, ran afoul in the Rollins Shoal.

They reach the damaged vessel, boarding by way of a gash in the hull midship. Burton splits them into teams of two, providing coverage for different areas of the ship. Lance and Keith are sent aft.

The paladins trek through darkened corridors of stacked cargo containers, carefully unlocking each door to a new area in anticipation of another hull breach.

“Captain’s a fatality.” Sykes announces over the comms. “First officer also.”

After five long intact hallways, the next door slides open to dead space, sucking the air from the corridor and sending the cargo flying.

Lance and Keith hurry through the doorway, closing it behind them. They engage their jetpacks, maneuvering around the cabin. There’s a gaping hole on either side of the room, as though something—asteroid or debris—tore right through.

“Looks like this was the living quarters,” Keith says.  
  
Lance deflates, dread settling heavy in his stomach. “We're too late.”  
  
"Wait." Keith shushes him, eyes darting around wildly. "Do you hear that?"  
  
"No, because space is a vacuum," Lance retorts, a bit petulantly.  
  
The futility of this rescue is getting to him. Keith pays the outburst no mind. The red paladin runs his hands over the walls in silent concentration. When he reaches a sliding door, he goes still.  
  
Keith's hunches aren't always completely unfounded and Lance finds himself joining his partner, placing his hands against the flat metal surface. The knocking doesn't make a sound so much as a vibration under their palms.  
  
"They're in here!"  
  
"Keith stop!" Lance grabs Keith's hand before he can press the control panel. "If they locked themselves in there, it's probably because they don't have protection." He opens the comm channel. "Burton. We need a way to extract survivors without spacesuits."

“Noting your location.” Burton says. “Prepare for extraction.”

“What does that mean?” Keith asks.

“Means get out of the way,” Sykes mutters.

Burton expertly maneuvers the salvage ship astride the doomed _Truwydah_ , right outside the larger of the two holes. From the open bay door, Virden shoots a sturdy metal line from a lyle gun mounted within the salvage ship. The projectile spear pierces the hull on the other side, down by the floor, and the spring-loaded retractable hook deploys, fastening the line in place.

“Nice shot!” Lance praises.

It’s a tough shot with limited visibility and Virden shows great prowess. The ships now connected by the steel cable, Burton extends a moveable connector, like a jet bridge, from one ship to the other.

Another pilot tugs a hose beneath the wrecked vessel, spraying high-density foam into the hull’s other wound. Lance and Keith press themselves against the wall of the room, holding onto the bunk railings while the cabin is pressurized.

“Foam should give you five min, ten tops,” Burton explains. “Get those crewmen out fast and clean.”

Keith opens the door, revealing six frightened Calobasani huddled in a storage closet. The aliens are a long-armed mammalian-looking species, reminding Lance a bit of horned, albino baboons. They hurry the crewmembers into the cabin, instructing them to climb the cable to safety.

It takes some encouragement to get them started. The Calobasani’s hands and prehensile feet are shaking from their ordeal and from the cold. Their breath clouds in the pressurized air. The aliens inquire about their captain. Mindful of their time constraints, Lance prods them as gently yet hastily as he can. The paladins get them started up the cable. Virden helps each crewmember into the salvage ship on the other end.

As the last crewmember ascends the line, there’s an incongruous, popcorn-popping crackle as the foam insulation behind them starts to degrade.

Keith shouts, “Lance, go!”

The blue paladin launches himself upward. Engages his jetpack. Plucks the last Calobasani survivor from the line. Virden is shouting instructions. Keith needs to squeeze a catch on the harpoon. That’ll disengage the locking mechanism and release the line.

Lance tumbles into the salvage ship, cradling his charge. The steel cable _whishes_ as it’s reeled back around the spool. In the _Truwydah_ ’s cabin, the popping intensifies. The bay door of the salvage ship slams shut.

“Keith!”

The red paladin doesn’t answer right away. Lance calls to him again, pulse racing and panic rising—without eyes on the damaged cabin, he fears the worst. Worry lengthens the tense moment of radio silence.

“I’m okay,” Keith says finally. “It’s not my first time being shot into space.”

Lance smiles, relieved. “Guess we can expect Red to show up any second now.”

Keith snorts. “Here’s hoping.”

Their deus ex Red Lion doesn’t come to pass. The salvage ship comes around to the other side of _Truwydah_ to collect Keith and the others. Lance helps Virden move the Calobasani from the gunroom to the main compartment, keeping an eye on the hatch as they pass out blankets and water.

A pair of pilots enter the compartment, followed by the red paladin. Lance brushes past the Zwaani and pulls his friend into a hug. Keith startles before relaxing into the embrace.

“Dude,” Lance murmurs. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“I’m okay,” Keith says, softly.

The salvage ship jolts and the paladins brace against one another to keep from tumbling.

“Sykes, Turley,” Burton’s voice comes over the comm. “Wrap it up! Magnetic storm coming in from Miah Shoal.”

“Got injured here,” Turley replies. “Track us. Moving to loading bay.”

Burton steers the salvage ship into place. Now that their part is done, the paladins are a bit superfluous. The Pilots on board move back to the gunroom to retrieve the remaining survivors. As the ship shudders around them, the paladins get each Calobasani sat on the wall bench and strapped in.

Frenzied chatter fills the comms as the Pilots race to get the last two survivors aboard. Burton spits a curse that doesn’t quite translate as soon as the bay door to the gunroom is shut. The ship starts off toward Zwaanen even before the others come through the door.

The main compartment is congested once everyone files in. Lance and Keith are scrunched into a corner, weathering the bumpy ride. It’s somehow more unnerving as a passenger. In their Lions, they have some control. Here in the salvage ship’s middle compartment, huddled with so many others, they can’t see or react to the dangers outside.

A particularly hard knock draws a gasp from everyone. Keith steadies himself with a hand on Lance’s knee and leaves it there—a comforting weight, even over the armor.

“Atmospheric entry forthcoming,” Burton announces. “Pilots prepare for landing in fifteen.”

Everyone breathes easier.

On the ground, Burton debriefs the Calobasani crew on their crash and make plans to recover the _Truwydah_ and its cargo.

Ingram approaches them with news. “Trade Alliance has approved your request. Encrypted signal will broadcast twice a day, so long as the channel is clear.”

“That’s all?” Keith says, frowning.

Ingram scoffs. “You have Imperialist enemies, heh? You want constant chatter regarding paladins broadcasting all over the cluster?”

“Pidge’s message reached the Castle when Allura and Coran were stuck in that weird time loop,” Lance reasons. “Once they get close enough, they’ll pick it up.”

As the paladins make for the ferry, Virden stops them.

“Your aid has not gone unnoticed,” Virden says. “Please join us at Schlesinger tonight.”

“Schlesinger?” Keith asks.

Virden smiles. “The tavern near the wharf. Look for the sign of the sea star.”

 

The path to Driftwood is becoming familiar. It doesn’t seem that long ago when Lance was still getting lost around the Castle. Now the streets of Pilottown are blending with the hallways that lead from the bridge to their rooms. Keith remains tight-lipped the whole ferry trip, back to his brooding self.

“Not a bad day,” Lance says conversationally. “We figured out the bayard thing, saved some people, set up the proximity broadcast. And now we’re going to a post-rescue party.” He ventures a smile, trying to draw some cheer out of his companion. “Our luck may be turning around.”

“I think we should learn to pilot a lightship,” Keith says, in such a grave voice he may as well have said ‘ _I think I’m dying._ ’

“Okay.”

Keith looks at him. “You’re with me?”

“Yeah,” Lance replies. “Sure, I mean, it makes sense. They want us to contribute and we’re already pilots. Plus we’ll learn more about this galaxy.”

Keith nods to himself, resolved.

 

Washed up and clothed in Zwaani garb, the paladins wander fog-dimmed streets, seeking the sign of the starfish. Lance peeks into the windows of houses as they pass, drawn to the warm glow coming from inside. Rooms are lit by candles and oil lamps and he makes a mental note to search these out at Driftwood.

Schlesinger Tavern is a lively, hospitable pavilion cluttered with communal tables under a cedarwood pergola laden with sweet-smelling vines. Virden catches sight of them as they approach, beckoning them inside.

The paladins greet Virden, then make a beeline for Burton. Keith declares their intention to join the pilot corp. Burton laughs in their faces.

“You are bold,” Burton gibes.

Lance frowns. “You know we _do_ pilot mystical giant robot lions.”

Burton’s humor dissolves into solemnity. “Pilot’s station is earned. Candidates demonstrate their gnyack in the Kijkspel.”

Lance slumps. “We just helped you rescue a whole crew from a wrecked spaceship. Isn’t that plenty gnyack?”

“If it’s a demonstration you want,” Keith says. “We can handle it. What do we have to do for Kijkspel?”

“Flotsam are welcomed on Zwaani, and shown much kindness.” Burton’s voice shakes with restrained anger. “Do not presume your skill is superior simply because you come from the Empire.”

Lance put up his hands defensively. “Whoa, whoa. No one’s saying they’re better than anyone else.”

“You said labor-in-kind,” Keith adds. “This is what we’ve got to offer.”

Burton’s posture relaxes, his expression softening. “You are far from home. Your ways are not our ways.” He gestures to the bustling tavern. “Dine with us this eve. Discussions of trades can wait until morrow.”

Burton claps them both on a shoulder and leaves them. The other Pilots make an exaggerated show of being involved in their own conversations, as though they weren’t just trying to eavesdrop from across the room. It reminds Lance of the aftermath of a Shiro lecture, right down to the cross-armed, sulking Keith with the proverbial stormy raincloud over his head.

Lance sighs. “Maybe we should just go.”

“If we leave,” Keith grits out, “that’s as good as admitting we don’t belong here.”

“OK, well.” Lance squints at the red paladin, keeping his voice low. “If we’re gonna stay, try and tone down your rage a little. You look like you’re plotting to murder puppies or something.”

Keith’s scowl somehow intensifies. “I do not.”

“Uh...you kinda do.”

“Fine.”

Keith attempts to school his face into something more pleasant but to Lance it just ends up looking like a grimace.

“Ugh, that’s somehow worse. Just...stick to your normal emo vibe.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “That’s not a thing, Lance.”

“Perfect. Disinterested with just a hint of threatening.”

“Whatever.”

Keith scoffs and walks back toward the gathering. Lance takes a deep breath and puts his own game face on. It’s not like he’s happy about Burton’s attitude, either. This’ll be his second time getting turned down for a flight program.

They find a seat at the table across from Virden, who seems the closest thing they have to an ally in this group. Two adjacent Pilots introduce themselves. Hossitt to the left of Virden and Gillis, the newest recruit, to his right.

A server plops a dish in front of each paladin to load up on the family-style offerings at the table: a rich seafood chowder, root vegetable salad, and a quinoa-like grain stuffed in oil-cured leaves. Zwaanen’s abundance of real, solid, non-goo food hasn’t lost its novelty for Lance.

“Yvold’s in talks to join trade,” Hossitt says.

Turley scoffs. “Trade what? Flotsam just landed there.”

“High volcanic activity, I hear,” Hossitt replies. “Started mining for gems, metals, stone.”

Virden hums, thoughtful. “Possible Kuyroc takes interest. Could use the traffic.”

Hossitt and Turley, having finished their meals, excuse themselves and move over to some gaming tables near the bar. The red paladin watches them go, waiting until they’re out of earshot.

“What’s Kijkspel?” Keith asks, with noticeably deliberate casualness.

Gillis cocks his head curiously. “Exhibition?” He and Virden exchange an enigmatic glance. “Contest for Pilots. Winner decides next apprentice.”

“So you won the last contest,” Keith guesses.

Gillis nods. “Yes. Began my apprenticeship at Drogesolsten—been nearly a cycle now.”

Lance perks up. “Then there’s one coming up, yeah?”

“One cycle more,” Virden says. “That’d be the soonest. Every other cycle is the standard recruitment period.”

“How do you join the contest?” Keith inquires.

“Zwaani are nominated,” Virden explains. “From Pilottown, sometimes other villages. Many candidates train from childhood.”

Keith pokes at a stray vegetable on his plate. “And flotsam?”

Gillis makes a puzzled face. “Why would flotsam enter a contest for Zwaani Pilots?”

Well, there it is. Keith stabs his spork into the innocent cubed spud he was worrying and shoves it into his mouth, effectively clearing his plate. The tinkle of shattered glass, followed by a peal of laughter, draws Lance’s attention toward gambols.

Some of the pilots are playing a rousing game that appears to be a tabletop version of curling; sliding cups across a long, smooth, dampened slab. One player apparently failed to catch their drink in time. Turley erases one tick mark from the opposing team’s side on the slate scoreboard.

“That looks fun,” Lance says.

“Deck-skating,” Gillis comments. “Favored pastime at Schlesinger. You had this on your planet?”

“We have beer pong,” Lance says. “Similar idea but slightly less destructive.”

“What’re they drinking?” Keith asks.

“Drupeghest,” answers Virden. “Spirit of beach plums.”

Gillis smiles. “You want to play?”

“Will take Keith for my teammate,” Virden offers.

Lance pouts. Second-best once again. Though the smile Virden gives Keith could be interpreted as rather affectionate. Wow. Go Keith?

Gillis laughs, flashing him a sympathetic look. “Lance, we will make a fine team.”

“You’d better be good.” Lance narrows his eyes. “I’m playing to win. Keith and I have a score to settle from this morning.”

“My skill is formidable,” Gillis assures him with a grin.

The foursome moves to the speeldeck as Turley and the others finish up their round. Deck-skating is a full-scale drinking game from the start. To determine which team skates first, there’s a preliminary chug-match: winner is whoever downs their drink the fastest. Naturally, the Pilots are eager to see how the flotsam handle Zwaani liquor, so Keith and Lance are volunteered.

The honey-colored drupeghest is slightly viscous, clinging to the side of the glass as it swirls. It smells sweet but not without that sharp ethanol vapor that comes off strong spirits. It’s a good essence, though—heady and nectarous. Lance takes a deep breath, raises his glass, and relaxes his throat.

_Bottoms up._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deck skating is based on a real drinking game called [Gelande Quaffing](http://entertainment.chubbiesshorts.com/2017/01/gelande-quaffing-is-the-greatest-winter-drinking-game-ever-created.html)  
> More on [Real Life Maritime Pilots](http://www.americanpilots.org/pilotage_in_the_u_s/index.php) and [The U.S. Life-Saving Service](http://uslife-savingservice.org/) (Precursor to the Coast Guard), that inspired the Zwaani Pilot Corp


	5. Dies Infaustus

Keith doesn’t remember falling asleep. The space behind his eyelids seems glaringly bright. He shies away from it, burrowing further into his slightly bony and Lance-smelling pillow. Right, so he’s cuddling with Lance again. Which is nice, but worrying. This curling up together to sleep is getting a bit out of hand.

He reaches over to leverage himself up and his fingers dig into the grainy bed—wait. Keith cups his hand and brings up a palmful of ivory sand.

Lance stirs beside him. Keith rolls away, blinking against the glare to take in their surroundings: an inland beach with a thicket of waxy-leafed shrubs blocking their view of the water over the dune. The sun is behind them, still fairly low in the sky. Flashes of sunlight wink from behind drifting puffy clouds. It’s warm but dry. Keith feels sticky and febrile nonetheless, as though the alcohol clings to his skin.

Did they walk down to the beach to sleep it off? There’s a haze where a recollection should be.

“Keith,” Lance groans, drawing out the vowels. “Why are we on the beach?”

Keith shushes him. “I’m trying to think.”

“They’re hazing us,” Lance mumbles. “We’re being hazed. They drugged us and left us out on the beach. Not cool.”

“They didn’t drug us. You drank enough of that droop-guest shit to knock out a cow.”

Lance whines and waves a hand in front of his face. “Not so loud. And leave Kaltenecker out of this.”

With some effort, Keith pushes himself to a stand. He notices an arrangement of stones in the sand about ten feet ahead, forming an arrow that points between the dunes. This alludes to the Pilots’ involvement in their current location. Keith starts toward the bushes.

Lance pushes up on his elbows, frowning. “Where are you going?”

“Where do you think?”

Keith grumpily trods off to answer nature’s call and try to clear some of the cotton from his mind. Up close, he spots little purple berries on the shrubs. Beach plums.

Fucking figures.

Last night is a blur of deck-skating and Lance being his typical fiercely competitive self and Keith eating up the bait and what seemed like a not unreasonable amount of drupeghest, which now seems to have a stronger effect on their systems than anticipated. The Pilots encouraged the revelry, agreeing to a tiebreaker game and then another before finally conceding it was a draw. Right? The memory gets kind of sticky there. Keith’s starting to wonder if they played right into Zwaani hands.

Lance is scrutinizing the arrow trail sign when Keith returns. “A game?” He pokes at one of the rocks. “I hate games.”

“You love games. You volunteered us to play deck-skating.”

Lance narrows his eyes. “I enjoy merrymaking, not _puzzles_.”

Keith wants to argue that point—Lance is actually pretty good at puzzles and seems to enjoy the thrill of completion—but he’s sore and groggy and wants his bed at Driftwood more.

He waves Lance onward. “Let’s go. I want like ten cups of cyana.”

“Lookit you going native.”

“Lance, come _on_.”

The crest of the dune gives them a better vantage point.

It's not good news.

They look out over a long range of sand drifts and miles of unadulterated shoreline in both directions, broken only by a stone jetty at the edge of the lagoon where a single sailboat is moored. Not a soul nor a settlement in sight.

“Mullet,” Lance says. “I don’t think we’re in Pilottown anymore.”

The paladins scramble down the dune and cross the jetty to the sailboat—a one-masted fifteen-foot sloop. Its name, _Cloudburst_ , is painted in bold calligraphy on the back transom.

Lance tugs on the dock line, pulling the bow of the boat closer so they can climb aboard and explore the deck. Below the ship’s wheel, Keith finds a compass and a map, absent of any legend or markings except for a dot marking Pilottown. On the back of the map is a note: _Sundown on the third day._

“Three days!” Lance balks. “How far away are we? And how did they get us here overnight?”

Keith fixes him with a withering look. “They’ve got a spaceship.”

“Oh, right.”

“This is Kijkspel,” Keith realizes, determination stirring in his chest. “They want us to prove our navigation skills.”

“By dumping us out here while we were passed out?”

“Apparently.”

Lance slumps. “Great.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe you got us kidnapped because you wanted to be a golden-boy pilot again.”

“You agreed it was a good idea!” Keith contends, his voice going shrill.

Lance throws his arms out. “That was before I knew the Zwaani were crazy people who leave unconscious people for dead on random beaches!”

“It’s not like we have a choice, now. We have to get back. Ingram’s starting the transmission today.” Keith reaches for one of the cleats on the starboard bow. “Help me get this untied.”

“Whoa, wait,” Lance grasps his arm. “Keith, we don’t even know where we’re going.”

With a huff, Keith fumbles with the map, studying the squiggly coastline while Lance peers over his shoulder. Pilottown is a dot at the end of a hooked cape. Below is another cape, curling toward Pilottown and separated by a bay. The tip of that bottom cape, he can only assume, must be where the spaceport is located. The whole arching peninsula of the continent looks like a dragon’s neck and head, with the bay between Pilottown and the spaceport forming the gaping jaws.

The beach where they woke up is to the right of the sailboat. Keith traces the shoreline of the bay with his finger, down from Pilottown and inward.

“We must be here.” Keith points to a cove that forms an open c-shape and resembles their surroundings. “So we need to go east.” He waves an arm toward his proposed course.

The blue paladin points to a similar cove on the outer edge of the peninsula. “Or we could be here. In which case we should follow the coast and head northwest...ish.”

“That’s gotta be more than a three day’s sail.”

Lance shrugs. “Depends how fast this baby can go.”

Keith groans in frustration. It’s hard to tell their position without a third point of reference. The Pilots seem to have set them up to fail.

Lance glances toward the beach, down at the map, and back. “Oh, hey!” He perks up. “The arrow in the sand.”

“You think that’s telling us where to go and not just the way to the boat?”

“It’s the only clue we’ve got.”

“Right.” Keith pictures the arrow in his mind and its relative position to them now. “So…” He points down the shoreline, past the beach where they woke. “That way.”

Lance smiles. “I believe we have our heading.”

Keith nods. “Once we’ve covered some ground we’ll have to use dead reckoning to try and pinpoint where we are.”

“You do that. I’m gonna get us underway.”

“You’ve sailed before,” Keith observes as Lance approaches a port-side bow cleat.

“Yeah, I grew up by the water. My uncle has a boat tour company.” Lance pulls up the line hitched to the cleat, gathering the slack until an anchor appears. He deposits the anchor on deck and crosses to the dock line. “We’ll probably wanna keep this line. I’m gonna jump over and untie it. Hold this end tight for me.”

Keith obeys, keeping the line taut so Lance can jump back onboard. “Don’t you need to get the sails up?”

“Once we get clear of these rocks and get the boat pointed into the wind.” The blue paladin scoffs. “Not that there’s much wind.”

“Are we gonna be dead in the water?”

“Nice use of nautical lingo.” Lance winks as he climbs back to the helm “And nope.” He pats the control panel. “We’ve got an inboard motor.”

Their captain-by-default hits the ignition and the submerged engine rumbles to life. The sailboat eases forward and Lance steers around the jetty into open water. He begins to hoist the silvery-charcoal mainsail.

“Watch the boom,” he warns.

“Wha—” Keith asks, too late, as the pole along the foot of the mainsail swings to the right and whacks the top of his head. “Ow! Hey!”

Lance snorts a laugh. “That’s why they call it the boom!” He examines the raised mainsail. “Whoa, nice. It’s solar cell fabric. Must charge up the motor.” He frowns. “We may be S.O.L at night, though.”

Lance directs Keith to a line clutch toward the bow and talks him through unfurling a canvas jib, the smaller of the two sails. A slight breeze subtly catches the sails and they adjust the lines to hold steady. The wind isn’t quite enough to propel, though, so Lance keeps them on power.

The blue paladin drives the boat while Keith starts digging through the cargo hold for supplies. He finds a notebook with waxed paper and a grease pencil, canteens, dry rations, blankets, and two pairs of swim trunks.

“Find any space-aspirin?” Lance asks, rubbing his forehead.

Keith shakes his head. “No such luck.”

“I guess _nano-bio_ doesn’t work on hangovers?”

Keith tosses him a canteen. “Water should help.”

“Thanks.”

The paladins drink slower than their thirst demands, not knowing when they’ll be able to resupply. Their boat clears the cove and Lance throttles up to cruising speed. The shoreline shifts from beach to wetlands. _Cloudburst_ sails past crooked trees with gnarled roots, reeds, and marsh grasses to the starboard. On the portside there’s open sea.

Lance takes another swig, wipes his mouth, and heaves a sigh. “One morning I wake up at the Garrison. The next night I fall asleep in an alien Castle Ship with an alien princess telling me that I can’t go back to Earth. One day we head out in the Green Lion and then we wake up here with no way back to the Castle.” He throws his arms up. “And now we’re lost on the Munsea with no idea how we’re gonna get back to Pilottown.”

Keith chuckles dryly. “Sounds about right.”

Lance peers over at Keith, waiting until he’s caught the red paladin’s eyes. “Don’t you get tired of going to sleep and not knowing where you’re gonna wake up?”

Keith looks away. “I’m used to it.”

“Right,” Lance says, his tone somber. “You didn’t always live in the desert.”

“Yeah.” Keith swallows down a surge of disquiet at the memory of life back on Earth. These days, it seems like all trains of thought lead back to Shiro. Family. Loss. “One of my foster placements was in Corpus Christi.”

Lance frowns. “Not when Kurt hit the gulf coast?”

“Yup.”

Lance winces in sympathy. “Yikes.”

“Wasn’t too bad where I was,” Keith assures him. “The house was inland.”

“The storm surge hit us hard. Took out half the marina.”

Something seizes at Keith’s chest. “Your family—”

“We were fine,” Lance rushes to say. “They evacuated us, so we held up at my cousins’ for a couple days. There was some flooding, nothing too bad.”

“That’s...good.”

“You were across the Gulf,” Lance says, wistful. “I could’ve swum across to see you.”

Keith shoots him a skeptical look. “We were _ten_.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a very strong swimmer.” Lance puffs up his chest. “Besides, I was eleven.” A smirk slithers its way across his face. “Does that mean I’m older than you?”

“I don’t think so. When’s your birthday?”

“July.”

Keith gives a noncommittal hum.

Lance’s grin nearly splits his face. “Holy crow, I _am_ older than you.”

“Pay attention to steering.”

The blue paladin gives a mock salute. “Sure thing, young’un.”

Lance turns his attention to the controls and they fall into quiet. It’s nice. The kind of scenic tranquility that usually allows Keith to settle down with his thoughts and convalesce. Only right now, he doesn’t want to be alone with his inner consciousness. He doesn’t want to face how screwed they are, how helpless he feels. He doesn’t want to think. He wants to _do._

Keith taps his pencil on the notebook, trying to remember Professor Ryu’s lectures on navigation. _It’s about knowing where you’ve been, learning where you are, and finding where you’re going._

“We survived the same hurricane,” Lance pipes up, conversationally. “This should be a piece of cake, right?”

Keith sighs. “Sure.”

Piece of cake. _Right_. He tries to tamp down his own pessimism. Lance is seeking reassurance. Keith wishes he felt confident enough to offer it. He wonders how it might’ve panned out, meeting Lance a decade ago. Would he be more obnoxious or less? Would younger Lance put up the same walls and fronts and find all the wrong buttons to press, or would they be able to skip all that and get right down to being friends? To being better, to being more.

_Focus. Patience yields focus,_ says the Shiro voice in his head. _Begin with your known position,_ Professor Ryu drawls. _That’s the fix._

Keith draws a triangle on the page. His mind flits back to the simulator. To the specs on the Kerberos mission. His grip on the pencil tightens. A triangle, just a little blip on a monitor indicating the vessel’s position. Blinking in, out, in, out, fading out. _Focus. Patience yields focus. Focus. Patience_ —

“Fuck.”

He tosses the pencil away. Takes a shuddering breath. Wills the tears burning behind his eyes away. Because he’s not going to cry. No. Crying is for people who are gone and Shiro’s not gone. He’s just...displaced. Like Keith and Lance are. But they’re fine, and Shiro’s fine and they’re going to find him. It’s gonna be fine.

“Keith?”

“S’nothing.” A deep, steadying inhalation. “Just dropped the pencil.”

Keith bends down to retrieve the writing implement, grateful to find it unbroken. Lance casts a worried look in his direction but doesn’t comment. The pencil hovers over the paper, ready to draw a line charting their course but lacking the data to execute the action.

“How fast are we going now?” Keith asks.

“Uhh...five knots, maybe?”

Keith wrinkles his nose, lips pinching in a frown. “What’s that in meters per?”

“Shit, I dunno, Keith.” Lance huffs and shrugs. “Knots are knots.”

“So? You should be able to do a conversion. Did you pay attention in class at all?”

“I payed attention well enough not to flunk out.”

“I didn’t _fail._ " Keith’s fists clench as anger roils in his stomach. “It was a bullshit disciplinary sanction.”

“You left,” Lance insists and he sounds almost...hurt. “You were there and then you weren’t.”

A rustling in the reeds has Keith reaching for the hilt of his luxite blade. With a sudden _whoosh_ , an enormous bird rises up from the marshland and crosses their path.

Lance points. “It’s a huge albatross!”

“Looks more like a heron,” Keith says.

“It’s a heron the size of an albatross!”

Lance isn’t wrong. The bird is mostly white with tall black legs and a long, thin beak but its wingspan is massive—must be at least twelve feet. Its body alone is almost Pidge-sized. The bird soars up against the cloudy sky in a graceful arc before swooping back down into the grass.

Lance gulps. “I hope they don’t eat people.”

“I’m pretty sure it eats fish.”

“If the waterfowl are that big, what does that say about the size of the fish? That thing could probably swallow a whole tuna.”

_Thump._

Lance shrieks as the great heron plops down on the foredeck, tipping the boat forward slightly, the bow descending beneath its weight. He instinctively downshifts the engine to an idle. The bird drops a large fish from its beak, giving a loud squawk of pride at its catch. The fish flops helplessly on the deck, almost escaping back to the water before the heron snatches it and once again presents its prey to the paladins with an indignant-sounding bark.

Keith feels an intrusive presence in his mind, similar to the paladin bond but stronger and more foreign. _Food,_ it says. The bird cocks its head to the side, as though puzzled by the humans’ inaction. _Food._

“Um.” Lance blinks. “Thanks.”

The blue paladin cuts the engine and scrambles up on the foredeck to grab the fish, wrangling it into a cooler beneath one of the benches in the seating area.

“You heard that too, right?” Lance murmurs quietly, as though the bird might overhear. “It talked to us.”

“Seems like some kind of low-level telepathy,” Keith reasons.

The bird studies them, blinking, its head darting from side to side. Keith feels a wave of...something...it feels like a mixture of wonder and pity. They’re something new. Flotsam. A curiosity. They seem out of place here—lost.

Lance introduces himself, putting a hand on his chest to mimic the Zwaani greeting gesture. The red paladin follows suit, affecting the same gesture.

_Mamalajor_. The strange voice conveys inside his mind, like a whisper from the inside. _Mamalajor-Zoar. Zoar._

“Okay, Zoar.” Lance chuckles awkwardly. “Thanks for the fish.”

_Swim._ Zoar takes a long-legged step forward, eyeing them intently. It’s now standing just behind the slanted windshield above the helm. _Swimmers. Deep. You swim? Deep swimmers._

“Yeah?” Lance scratches at the back of his head. “I can swim, what—” Zoar reaches out a big clawed foot and picks up the blue paladin by the shoulder. “No, no, no,” Lance chants as he’s lifted up and swung over the side of the boat. “Keith, a little he—aah!”

Lance hits the water with a splash. Keith and Zoar peer over to watch him surface a moment later, soaked and disgruntled from the lack of warning, but otherwise no worse for wear. Lance’s drowned-rat hair and indignant pout are so adorably woeful Keith can’t help the laughter that bubbles up out of him. It’s cathartic.

“Okay, _ha_ , _ha,_ ” Lance grumbles. “Throw the guy overboard and see if he floats.”

Lance continues mumbling nonsense Spanglish under his breath as he paddles to the boarding ladder. Zoar warbles excitedly. _Swim. Good swimmer. Good._ Keith reaches down to help Lance up the ladder, an offer he accepts—but not before showering the red paladin with a hearty splatter of seawater. Fair enough. At least their Zwaani clothing should dry quickly.

Lance plods back toward the helm, dripping all the way. Zoar bounces in place. _Come._ _Mamalajor-home. Help. You go. You help._ Zoar shakes its wings and squawks. _Go._

“He wants us to go with him,” Lance stage-whispers to his fellow paladin.

Keith shakes his head. “No way. We don’t have time for this.”

“We have no idea where we are.” Lance gestures to the unfamiliar landscape. “Maybe he can help us.”

“ _How_?”

“Keith.” Lance presses his hands together beneath his chin. “A telepathic bird has just appeared with a sidequest. You don’t turn down a sidequest from a giant telepathic bird.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Aaarg, fine. Whatever. As long as it’s on the way. I guess.”

“Aw, yeah,” Lance crows, disproportionately excited. “Show us to your awesome bird lair, Zoar.”

The bird—the mamalajor—launches up from _Cloudburst_ ’s deck. The momentum rocks the boat. A command rings out in the paladins' minds: _Follow._ Lance throttles the engine. Zoar flies in a zigzag pattern, giving them leave to follow. Their path veers away from the coastline and out toward open waters.

“This isn’t on the way,” Keith mutters.

“It’s not backtracking either. Have some faith.”

This from the guy who five minutes ago was afraid the bird was going to eat them. Sometimes Lance confounds him.

The blue paladin flashes him a mischievous grin. “Or are you scared?”

Keith’s lips curl reflexively into an answering smirk. “With you at the helm?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance tuts, his gaze flitting back to Zoar’s path.

Keith bumps their shoulders together. “I trust you more than a giant telepathic bird.”

A feeling blooms in his mind, encroaching but not unwelcome and definitively coming from Lance over whatever strengthened bond Zwaanen has allowed them to form. It tastes like hope.

As they sail, Zwaanen’s characteristic mist sweeps in, as though for dramatic effect. They pass through cool whisps, the open sea laid out before them in patches of clarity and haze. There’s a mounting sense of excitement as they progress that must be coming from Zoar.

Keith knows they’re getting close when he feels an extrinsic pulse in his chest.

_Home. Home. Home._

The structure they approach isn’t quite an island, at least not in the traditional sense. A colossal reef rises up from the water; a knobbly mountain of giant layered corals, bleached and calcified over probably many decades of exposure to the elements. Mamalajors have nested in its many nooks and crevices. Lance steers _Cloudburst_ into the center of the curved formation, dovecoat alcoves surrounding them like a natural coliseum.

Zoar circles the lagoon, calling to its brethren to come see what he has brought. _Swimmers. Deep swimmers._ Mamalajors poke out from their nooks, perching on fossilized crags and tree-like spears of dried coral.

“Hey, guys.” Lance’s little wave is somewhat extraneous. “We’re on this Kijkspel thing and we need to get back to Pilottown. Can you tell us where that is?”

A psychic murmur commences among the crowd. _Sunken star. Swimmers. Sunken Star._

Lance puts on a diplomatic smile. “Cool, cool. So we’ll take care of your sunken star problem, and you can point us in the right direction…?”

The chatter grows louder. The mamalajors squawk and screech, shaking their wings and shouting to the collective consciousness: _Sunken star! Sunken star!_ The paladins cover their ears to no avail. The cacophony roars from within as much as without.

“I don’t think they’re open to negotiating,” Keith calls over the noise.

Zoar plunks back onto the sailboat’s foredeck. _Sunken star. Scare food. No food. Swimmers help. Good swimmers. Sunken star._

“O-kay,” Lance bellows. “We get it. Sunken star first, our stuff later.”

Zoar launches up from the deck, flapping its wings to hover in place above the boat.

_Follow._

 

**Author's Note:**

> weekly updates planned. stay tuned! thanks for reading.


End file.
